Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 6

But the matter was far from over.

Not long after, Xu Jun came trotting down to find Dong Junhao, who was still tidying up the scrub tables.

“Junhao! Quick, stop what you’re doing!” Xu Jun lowered his voice, his tone a rare mixture of urgency and tension as he slapped Junhao’s sweat-slicked back. “Hurry up, follow me to the VIP section on the second floor! That important guest from earlier, he specifically called for your services!”

Junhao straightened up, looking completely bewildered, still clutching a bottle dripping with disinfectant. “The second floor? Manager Xu, is that guest still upset about us bumping into each other? I. what should I do? Besides, I only know how to scrub backs. Isn’t that area usually handled by the girls?”

“Don’t panic yet!” Xu Jun said firmly. “Rest assured, he’s not looking for trouble. Though, as to why he insisted on you specifically, I haven’t quite figured that out either.”

“But since he asked for you, just do whatever he says! In my opinion, this young master is no ordinary person, we must serve him with the utmost care.” He leaned in closer, his voice heavy with warning. “Remember: don’t talk too much, keep a smile on your face, do as you’re told, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go charging into any more trouble…” Xu Jun didn’t finish the sentence, but the warning in his eyes was clear enough.

The drum in Junhao’s chest beat even louder. He put down the ladle and rubbed his hands haphazardly on a rough towel, but his palms remained damp with sweat.

He followed Xu Jun up the stairs, which were covered in thick, dark velvet carpeting. The banister was made of cool, smooth ebony, and the air carried a light, elegant fragrance entirely different from the murky steam below. It was so quiet that he could hear his own heavy breathing and the rhythmic thumping of his heart.

As soon as they reached the second-floor corridor, Junhao’s feet felt as though they were nailed to the floor. At the end of the hallway, outside a heavy dark teak door adorned with intricate carvings, stood two men. Dressed in fitted black shirts with cold, hard expressions and hair cropped short as needles, they stood like iron spears welded to the ground. Their hands were folded in front of them, their gazes steady and devoid of emotion, yet they radiated an invisible, suffocating aura of deterrence.

Junhao had seen tough guys in construction site brawls and seen foremen throw their weight around, but this silent, disciplined, machine-like guard presence made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Xu Jun, his face already plastered with a near-fawning smile, bowed and stepped forward to whisper a few words to one of the bodyguards with extreme respect. The guard gave a slight, expressionless nod and silently pushed open the heavy door.

A warmer, more private draft mingled with the scent of high-end essential oils and cedarwood brushed against Junhao’s face, instantly enveloping him. The room was massive, the most luxurious suite in the entire bathhouse. The carpet was so thick and soft it felt like his ankles would sink into it. The walls were covered in sound-absorbing velvet, and the soft, indirect lighting blurred every sharp edge in the room. In the corner, a small water feature burbled softly, its weak yet clear sound accentuating the indoor silence.

In the center of the room, lounging on a wide electric massage chair large enough for two, was a figure. He had removed his rain-drenched outer clothes and was now wearing one of the few silk white bathrobes “Bihai Yuntian” reserved for top-tier guests, accented with dark gold piping.

The belt at his waist was tied loosely, looking as though it might come undone at any moment. The collar was open, revealing a sharp collarbone and a firm, flat chest. His skin was a cold, moisturized white the result of years of meticulous care and under the dimmed warm yellow lights, it looked like fine suet jade, emitting a delicate, soft luster. Even while lounging, his stature remained long and upright. The hem of the robe was draped aside, revealing a section of his calf, perfectly proportioned with clean, sharp lines.

His hair was still slightly damp, with a few strands of raven-black hair clinging rebelliously to his smooth, full forehead.

As for his features, Junhao’s brain completely stalled. He searched his mind but couldn’t find the right words. It was an aggressive beauty that transcended gender. Every proportion was just right: a high bridge of the nose, thin and pale lips, and a jawline as sharp as a carving. His face was as exquisite as a Greek statue in a museum, yet the damp hair and lazy expression gave him a vivid, almost demonic sense of life.

But what caused Junhao’s breath to catch were the eyes. They were currently narrowed, looking toward the door. The pupils were an absolute black, bottomless like a pool of icy water, yet they were exceptionally bright, clearly reflecting the fragmented light of the overhead lamps. That gaze was calm and focused, carrying a faint, playful smile like an experienced hunter appraising a bewildered prey that had wandered into his territory. It settled steadily and unashamedly on the face of the stiff, frozen Dong Junhao.

Thump!

Inside Junhao’s chest, the heart that was accustomed to slow, heavy labor was suddenly squeezed by an invisible hand. It skipped a heavy beat before racing at an uncontrollable speed. This feeling was strange, violent, and completely beyond his control. It felt like a red-hot iron had been thrust into his muddled senses.

The man radiated an aura entirely foreign to Junhao clean, noble, and composed, as if everything were within his grasp, yet carrying an air of detached, careless elegance. He stood on the other side of a chasm from the world of steaming sweat, crude language, and all the men Junhao knew, including himself. It was as if, in the middle of a dusty, roaring construction site, a crisp, new hundred-yuan bill had fluttered down, smelling of fresh ink exquisite, dazzling, and so out of place it made one’s heart skip.

“…H… hello.” Dong Junhao felt physically burned by that gaze. He lowered his head abruptly; his eyes fixed on the tips of his water-stained flip-flops. He managed to squeeze out two dry, short syllables from deep in his throat, almost inaudible. Being watched like that made his skin feel exposed under an invisible searchlight, sending a fine, heart-pounding shiver through him. His hands and feet became redundant parts, too stiff to place anywhere. Even his breathing became cautious; the familiar dexterity he had shown while working downstairs had vanished.

Fang Mingxing took in Junhao’s distress, his stiffness, and the sheer incongruity of that powerful, primitive body within such luxurious surroundings. The faint smile at the corner of his mouth seemed to deepen by an imperceptible margin. He didn’t rise, but simply shifted into a more relaxed posture, one hand resting casually on the arm of the massage chair.

“Back downstairs, that collision was quite heavy,” Fang Mingxing said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it maintained that crisp, magnetic quality that echoed clearly in the silent room. Every word sounded perfectly polished. “Now, I’m asking you to come up and serve me for a while…” He paused, his gaze like tangible silk threads wrapping around the curve of Junhao’s lowered, tensed neck. “…That’s fair, isn’t it?”

His tone was steady, even gentle, but it made the muscles in Junhao’s back tighten further and his scalp tingle.

Junhao didn’t dare look up. He muttered, “I-I’m really sorry about earlier. I wasn’t looking where I was going… are you alright? But, I. I haven’t been in this line of work for long. I only, only know how to scrub backs.”

The words “scrub backs” coming from his mouth in such a room, before such a person, sounded exceptionally crude, simple, and almost laughable.

“Scrubbing backs…” Fang Mingxing repeated, his tone rising slightly with the curiosity of someone appraising a strange new object. He mused for half a second, his gaze lazily sweeping over the luxurious massage bathtub on one side of the room, carved from a single piece of white marble with brass dragon-head faucets. “Very well. I’ve just come from the rain; a soak to drive out the chill would be good.”

He turned his gaze back to Junhao, his tone as natural as if he were instructing his own servant. “Go and start the water, then.” He pointed toward the bathtub. “In there, you can give me a simple back scrub.”

Junhao snapped his head up, his eyes wide as saucers. His dark face was filled with disbelief, thinking he was hallucinating.

In… in that polished, beautiful, art-like pool?

Scrubbing a back?